


The Devil in the Details

by ilcuoreardendo



Category: Fright Night (2011)
Genre: Christmas Eve, Christmas Tree, Gen, M/M, Old Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilcuoreardendo/pseuds/ilcuoreardendo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Cozy,” Peter says, from the doorway, nose wrinkling slightly. He looks like he’s trying not to touch anything.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Hardly,” Charley says. “But it’s affordable. Come on in.”</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Peter lets out a soft sigh that sounds almost like an apology and slips inside, closes the door behind him.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil in the Details

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted at my [Tumblr](http://ilcuoreardendo-fic.tumblr.com). A response to the prompt: Peter/Charley, the Devil’s in the detail.

 

 

* * *

 

Later, Charley will ask himself how long it took him to figure out what Peter was. Later, he won’t want to answer.

He’s off early for Christmas Eve. His boss has sent him on his way with a thermos of eggnog, a box full of food—club sandwich, fries, pumpkin and pecan pie—and a bonus check that he’ll try to put toward his spring break savings.

Though spring seems light-years away in this grey and white world that greets him as he stumbles out the back door, and he wonders, again, what possessed him to leave behind long sunny days and familiar faces and…

“Charley.” Peter’s leaning against a snow covered car, his hair wind-disheveled, his duster coat unbuttoned, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He stands so still that Charley would’ve overlooked him if he hadn’t spoken.

 “The hell are you doing here?” He hasn’t seen Peter in nearly two years.

“A show, of course. You haven’t seen the ads? The Fright Night North American Tour. Not an original name, admittedly, but there it is. Anyway, thought I’d stop by, say hello. You know you miss me” Peter’s eyes are strangely luminescent in the glow of the street lamps. His words are honest. Charley’s missed him too.

“How’d you know I was here?”  
  
“ _Magician_ ,” Peter says, “Secrets. Never reveal.” He walks closer, eyes narrowing, sniffing the air. “Is that pie?”

Peter’s hand is cold on Charley’s shoulder.

Charley invites him home.

 

Charley’s studio apartment, in the old section of town, is the size of Peter’s Vegas living room. The windows are caked in years of grime and give a yellowish tinge to the outside world.  _Don’t eat yellow snow,_  he thinks idly.

There’s a leak in the kitchenette faucet, the plumbing sounds like a herd of cows lowing whenever someone in the building flushes a toilet, and the wiring leaves a lot to be desired. Charley’s set up a strategic number of candles and lanterns around the room.

He lights them now. Then plugs in his small, plastic Christmas tree with a silent prayer that it won’t blow the fuse, and sighs when the fairy lights twinkle on and gleam brightly.

“Cozy,” Peter says, from the doorway, nose wrinkling slightly. He looks like he’s trying not to touch anything.

“Hardly,” Charley says. “But it’s affordable. Come on in.”

Peter lets out a soft sigh that sounds almost like an apology and slips inside, closes the door behind him.

They eat pie and kill the bottle of wine Peter had pulled from the back of his rental car. Charley remarks that he seems to have gotten over his Midori addiction. Peter says he’s come to enjoy the nuances in many other drinks.

Charley doesn’t mention the strange timbre of Peter’s voice, the shine of his nails, the coolness of his fingers. He ignores, makes excuses, dismisses.

Until he cuts himself while piling dishes into the sink.

“ _Charley_.” Peter’s voice is a harsh rasp of longing. He moves from futon to kitchenette counter in the blink of an eye and Charley stumbles back. The fairy lights reflect in Peter’s black eyes, glint off the curve of his teeth as he sucks Charley’s finger into his mouth.

“ _Fuck_.”

“C’mon, Charley,” Peter whispers, after one last pull. He flicks his tongue over the cut, pulls one last bead of blood into his mouth. “You  _knew_. You don’t invite people in…. So, why did you?”

“I don’t,” he starts. “I’m not—“  And he thinks of his mother, making her name in real estate, moving on with her life, new town, new boyfriend. He thinks of Amy and mutual break ups over Skype. He thinks of school, work and endless loops of time, the same day lived again and again.

And he thinks of late nights in Peter’s apartment, prowling the strip. Thinks of the graduation party the magician had thrown for him and the farewell party that followed later that summer. He thinks of late night phone calls, the checks in his mail box that help him through the lean months.   
  
And he considers the way Peter has sequestered himself over the last couple of years, talking to Charley only on the phone, refusing to see Charley on his last trip to Vegas.

Thinks about the mix of sorrow and joy and reluctance in Peter’s eyes when Charley invited him into his apartment. 

“Because,” Charley says, finally, “it’s you.”

 

 


End file.
